It's Awkward Again
by amaXdear
Summary: Nick and Greg get drunk and find themselves in an awkward situation, which gets even more awkward when they go to work and sorta kinda almost … die. Inspired by an AFI song. Warning: Slash, cussing.


**A/N: Yes, this is a songfic. However, it is also a quality fic, if I do say so myself. I mean come on, the lyrics last about one and a half pages, and this story is twenty-two pages. Oh yeah, and it also took me roughly two to three weeks to finish.**

**Seriously, the song is just in it because it was my inspiration. The song is The Killing Lights, by AFI. I may have changed a 'she' to a 'he' here and there, but other than that, I own absolutely nothing. If anyone notices my secret tip of the hat to lead singer Davey Havok, include it in your review. It's not obvious--just something he mentioned in an interview. Oh, and there is a diet show on BBC, but I don't know the name of it, because I record anything worthwhile anyway and my TV's just set on that channel. I'm sure it's a very nice show.**

**On a side note, I would like to thank my beta, lupine72, SO SO SO MUCH for beta'ing this even though she doesn't watch CSI. YOU ROCK!**

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Oh!  
Five A.M. on the bathroom floor from the night before.  
Do you find me dreadful?  
What a shame such a sad disgrace,  
Such a pretty face,  
But he's not regretful.

Okay. So Greg was on a floor. That much he got. A hardwood floor, but with a carpet in the middle. He was sort of on the carpet. He was sort of on a couch, too. One hand was thrown onto the cushions. It was a fairly thin couch, and Greg liked space when he slept. Therefore, he had probably fallen off the couch. Wow, that was some great CSI logic.  
Now let's see. He was wearing a pair of boxers, no other clothes. His tongue was covered in fuzz, and his head was being squashed from all sides. Those were all classic symptoms of a hangover. He had gotten drunk with the gang when they got off shift, he remembered that now. The puzzle pieces were coming together.  
Judging by the incredibly bright light streaming through the partially-open window, it was afternoon. He was wearing next to nothing. He was hungover. Thus, this must be the awkward part of a one-night stand, or the equivalent of such for people who worked nights--in Las Vegas, half the population. Greg was proud of himself for figuring it out.  
Now, all that was left was to find the rest of his clothes and get the hell out of here.  
Greg tried to stand up and instantly regretted it. His head protested the action, trying to make him sit down again. He wanted to obey, but it felt like a couple of chimpanzees were wrestling in his stomach, which meant he was going to hurl. Thinking that it would be very rude to make a mess of some stranger's living room, he raced to the nearest door and found a bathroom. Oh great, the bathroom also had a working toilet.  
"Yummy, leftover sushi. My favorite on a bright Saturday morning." The sound of his own voice comforted him a little bit, even though he sounded drugged. Greg took a moment to look around the bathroom. It would be beyond rude to use a stranger's toothbrush to get the slime off his teeth. No, scratch that. It would be beyond rude to use _anyone's_ toothbrush to get the slime off his teeth. Did the same rules apply to water and mouthwash?  
Greg decided not. He cupped some water in his hands and rinsed in a motion eerily reminiscent of his braces days. He poured just a tiny little bit of mouthwash into the cap and swished with that too, because half-digested sushi didn't go well with coffee, which he would be guzzling by the gallon once he got home.  
After he had spit the last of the mouthwash into the sink, he heard footsteps. Aw crap. Greg had not had many one-night stand experiences, but enough to know that the re-meeting went better when you were either fully dressed or completely naked, depending on the situation, and always when you had _not_ just vomited. Oh, and it was nice to have a slight recollection of the previous night as well, especially if it had been enjoyable and the other person had not been as drunk as you.

"Greg?"  
"Nick?"  
"What are you doing here?"  
"Throwing up in your toilet."  
"Why?"  
"You can't remember either? Great. Nothing happened, then."  
"Huh?"  
Nick seemed very confused, and also suffering from a hangover. He was blinking like an owl, thankfully too blind to notice that Greg was blushing. Sex with a co-worker. A male co-worker, who had not known before that he was bisexual. Totally awkward.  
"Um… Hey Greggo, by any chance, are you drunk?"  
"Not at the moment, no, but I've got a wicked hangover."  
"Okay, this may sound really stupid, but … are you wearing someone else's boxers?"  
Greg looked down. Shit. "Yeah."  
"I think we had sex."  
"I agree."  
"This is weird."  
"Totally."  
"Remember anything?"  
"Not a bit."  
"Me neither."  
"I blame Catherine."  
"Why?"  
"She bought the first round, remember?"  
"Vaguely."  
"So… you wanna pretend this never happened? Or talk about it? Or, er, get dressed before talking about it?"  
"I like that last one."  
"Need to puke?"  
"Yup."

_Am I beautiful?  
__Am I usable?_

Greg moved out of the way and let Nick vomit in peace. Now he recognized the apartment, of course. He also had a vague memory of ricocheting off the walls and into the bedroom, so he headed that way to look for the rest of his clothes. Oh wait, he was wearing Nick's… ah, never mind. He'd get the boxers back later. Preferably delivered in a sealed FedEx package, with no discussion or personal interaction, after they had been washed, and before Catherine or Hodges or, God forbid, Ecklie, ever, ever, ever found out.  
His shirt was caught between the door and the hall wall. That was a weird phrase, hall wall. Corridor wall, maybe? Wall in the hall? Wait, this was stupid. He wasn't supposed to focus on the phrasing of his own thoughts. Greg slipped the shirt over his head, wincing slightly. Oh great, bite marks on his back and shoulders. Just what he needed. He made a mental note not to change in the locker room where Warrick could see. Now all he needed was to find his jeans. Now where--what the hell? How did they end up on top of the ceiling fa-- oh yeah. He remembered.  
Greg had to jump a little bit to reach his pants, but eventually he made it into Nick's living room, fully clothed. He passed Nick in the hallway, but the other man coughed in order to avoid eye contact. _Right_…  
Greg sat in an armchair, resisting the urge to whistle, and stared at the couch thoughtfully. There were a lot of pillows on the floor, which didn't make much sense. Nick was a fairly neat guy, and if Greg had decided to sleep on the couch, he would have tossed the pillows on the chair, not the floor. Then again, he could have been otherwise occupied at the time. He could see no overt sign of sex on the couch, but he was only a CSI level 1. He could miss a few things--except the fact that the clothes apparently hadn't come off until the hallway. The young CSI pondered for a moment, before shaking his head and deciding he just didn't want to know.

Not for the first time in his life, Greg cursed his drunken personality. He didn't get drunk often--hell, he didn't even _drink_ often. His father had raised him that way; Sanderses couldn't drink much. Two beers and his father was a hiccupping, dazed toddler. Hojems, however, could down a gallon of whisky and drive themselves home, and Greg was genetically a Hojem. He only got drunk for a very, very good reason. In this case, the team had put away three guys who had kidnapped and killed five little girls over the course of fifteen years, and Catherine told them all to pick a club. It had been the perfect let's-all-go-get-drunk-off-our-ass opportunity. There was the chance to drown away the sorrow of dealing with dead seven-year-olds, but also to celebrate being smarter than the killers and the FBI agents who had tried to take over _their_ lab. Everyone loved to outsmart the FBI, and it was a particular thrill for Greg, as it was the first time he had done so while working in the field.  
Anyway, on the rare occasion Greg was utterly and completely plastered, he made an ugly picture. First he got surly and snapped at everyone who came his way. Then he got remorseful and clingy, tracked down everyone he had offended, gave his most sincere apologies, sometimes crying, and hugged them until they started to develop bruises. Then he got affectionate, giving many more hugs, crying a little bit more, looking deep into people's eyes and insisting that they really were one of the most important people in his life. Then he just got horny.  
He was suddenly very glad he couldn't remember what he had babbled to Nick last night.

Nick breezed right through the living room to the kitchen at that thought, dressed in fresh clothes. "Coffee?" he offered, sidestepping the elephant in the room.  
"None of your crap."  
"Right. Aspirin?"  
"I lov-- I mean sure, thanks," Greg corrected, realizing at the last possible second that his original, more exuberant reply was probably the last thing he wanted to utter in this situation.  
Nick set a glass of water and two aspirin on the coffee table, popping his own pills dry. Greg could never swallow pills without water. His mom had tried to teach him once, using M&M's so he didn't overdose, but it never worked. All he did was choke and then spit out a lot of M&M's, which sucked because he wasted a hell of a chocolate.  
"So…"  
"Yeah…" Greg hesitated, then did what he was trying desperately not to do, and blurted out the first random thought that popped into his head. "I didn't know you were gay."  
"Ditto for you, man."  
"Eh, bi, gay, what's the difference? I kept my Guys n' Gals lab-porn under lock and key, just in case some people were a little more … sensitive."  
"You mean like Catherine?"  
"Catherine, Ecklie, random touring college student, or anyone with sticky fingers. Y'know, it's really hard to find bisexual pornography. There's not really a big market, you see. People are more inclined to buy two separate magazines and then base it on what they feel like but I'm never one to waste that kind of cash… I'm going to stop talking."  
"For once in your life," Nick said with a slight bit of a smile.  
"Yeah, I guess."

Long pause…

"Okay, so I was thinkin'," Nick began, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. "About, um, whatever happened last night. We were both really drunk."  
"_Incredibly_ drunk."  
"Yeah. And working nights for the lab, it's pretty impossible to have a real social life, right? I mean, I don't know about you but I don't think I've had sex in … four months, give or take."  
"Really? That's pathetic."  
Nick flushed, just a little bit. "Well you know me, I'm old-fashioned. I pick relationship over sex most of the time." Old-fashioned gay man was the only thing stupider than gay Texan, but Greg kept silent. "And after a while, when you get that drunk you're pretty much game for anyone."  
"'Course. Doesn't matter if you've got a history, or if you normally hate each other, or whatever."  
"…Or if you work together. And we're both, y'know, into guys, so it's not like this is any special circumstance."  
"Dude, you must be new at this. There is no special circumstance, no matter what TV tells you. No one is gay for 'just one person,' that's called denial." Nick blushed a little bit more. Did he usually blush this easily? Greg didn't think so.  
"Whatever. Okay, so let's go over this again. No sex in a long time, lots of alcohol clouding our judgment, and you're an attractive guy, Greg, no use denyin' it."  
"Thanks."  
"So… it's not like we're looking for another relationship or anything. We're buds, right?"  
"I would never use that phrase, but yeah. Friends."  
"Not fuck buddies."  
"Definitely not."  
"See you at work, then."  
"Yeah."  
"Aaah… about the boxers…"  
"FedEx?" Greg offered.  
"I was kinda going to say forget it."  
"I want mine back."  
"FedEx it is."  
"Bye."

_It's killing time again.  
Put on your face and let's pretend,  
These killing lights won't kill us all again._

The familiar, scientific smell of the lab made the world slightly normal, but Greg made sure to bring an extra-big thermos full of Blue Hawaiian, just in case. Warrick came into the locker room about five minutes after Greg, and they exchanged greetings.  
"Hey Greggo, do me a favor and tell me I'm not the only one who woke up with a killer hangover?"  
Greg laughed, but it sounded just a little bit forced. "You have absolutely no idea."  
"Rough night, huh?"  
"Can't remember it, thank God. Rough morning."  
"Aw, did little Greggy get lucky?"  
"Lucky? I wouldn't call it that. I'd prefer not to speak of it, if you don't mind."  
Oh no. Those footsteps weren't coming towards the locker room, were they? Before Greg could make his grand exit, Nick waltzed right into the room. Greg was embarrassed, and he knew his face showed it, but Nick was absolutely fine. He had that normal, the-world-loves-me smile on his face, and he was even able to say hello to Greg without averting his gaze or anything. In fact, he seemed to look just a little bit longer than usual.  
"Hey Nick, you were at that club for longer than I was," Warrick realized. "Did you see little Greggo's lady friend?"  
"Why're you assuming it was a lady, Rick?" he answered with a wink. "And you call _me_ old fashioned?"  
Warrick laughed, but Greg didn't. He was too busy trying to figure out Nick's motive. Was he planning on coming out and thought it would be easier if Greg went first? Was he trying to give Greg a little nudge in the right direction? Was he simply trying to humiliate his young friend? Or was he just messing around?  
In any case, Greg was too focused on this predicament to maintain a strategic poker face, so Warrick eventually stopped laughing. "G, is he serious?"

"Of course not, man, it was a joke."  
"Like you never guessed."

They answered at the same time, and all three men exchanged awkward glances. Greg finally spoke up.  
"Yeah well, I'm too pathetic to be picky, so I'm equal opportunity," he said with a shrug, not making a big deal of it. "If that disgusts you, kiss my ass, 'cos I don't care, and I'm still hungover."  
Warrick chuckled, shaking his head. "Naw man, I guessed. You used to wear Hawaiian shirts, remember? Combined with your hair, it's enough to make any speculate, you know? You're the same crazy lab rat wannabe CSI anyway, don't matter to me."  
"All right then. I'm gonna go make sure Grissom isn't stealing any of my coffee beans."  
Greg managed to walk calmly out of the room, but then ran to the break room. Damn, that was the most inelegant coming out in the history of homo/bisexuality. Some people staged this elaborate scene in front of everyone they knew, others planned out a nice speech. There was even a sort of poetic twist of fate in the whole caught-in-the-act thing. But no, a joke gone wrong in front of two of his coworkers, one of whom he had just slept with. He definitely could have handled that one better.

Sara was already in the break room, hands wrapped around a cup of liquid mud that counted for coffee in her sad little world. She was flipping through a magazine, one of those crappy ones that show models with legs that reach their shoulders wearing clothes that no one in the world ever, ever wears. Greg wondered vaguely why the hell Sara was reading it. He walked--alright, crept--up behind her, planning to scare her. She didn't notice, looking at the women in the magazine with a somewhat wistful, somewhat righteously indignant expression. He let it go, until she actually paused on a page. "Ten Tips to Make Yourself Appear Taller and Thinner" the magazine screamed.  
"Oh come on, Sara, don't tell me you actually believe this crap."  
He snatched the magazine from her hands as she jumped.  
"I was just looking," she said, trying to sound innocent.  
"Yeah, that's what my friend Jamie said once. Two weeks later I found out she was bulimic. Trust me, Sara, girls that look like _this_"--he indicated a particularly scary lady--"major turnoff."  
"You love supermodels."  
"Yeah, size eight and up. The ones that eat more than a single grain of rice for a meal. The only guys that like this kind of crap aren't even worth your time. Here, guys." Greg tossed the magazine at Warrick and Nick, who had just entered the room. "Would you date that girl?"  
"Hell yeah, if she wasn't so stretched out." Warrick said immediately. "Where are the curves?"  
"Nick?" Greg asked, knowing full well that he would say no.  
"No way. In my family, we like our girls tough. My three-year-old niece could break this girl's wrist with two fingers. That's just creepy."  
"Sara was reading an article on how to look like her."  
"I was not!"  
"Were too!"  
"It's not a crime to want to look good, Greg, that doesn't make me bulimic," Sara snorted with a toss of her hair.  
"Better not, but I'll still be keeping an eye on you, Sidle. Besides," he added in a casual-but-not-really manner. "Remember that case we worked at the chubby convention? It might have been me, but Grissom seemed vaguely turned on by the whole thing, and you can't tell me that _those_ girls didn't eat regularly."

Nick and Warrick snickered, and Sara, after gaping and trying to speak for a few moments, just looked away. Greg could have sworn he heard her mutter, "So did you," but he wasn't sure. Then Catherine walked in, looking around with an amused expression. "What'd I miss?"  
"Greg thinks I'm bulimic, Warrick wants to date a model, and Nick has a freakishly strong baby for a niece."  
"Ah. Where's Grissom?"  
The man himself came in suddenly with a handful of little white slips. "Lots of dead bodies tonight, gang, we're all full. Warrick and Sara, looks like a murder-suicide in Henderson. Catherine, you're with me, we've got a dead hooker, a strangled woman, and a flustered husband at the Tangiers."  
"Sounds easy."  
"Not quite. Vega's waiting for us there, he made sure to let me know that the guy's showing signs of intoxication. He can't remember details, possibly drugged."  
"Great."  
"Nick, you've got a 406-turned-420. Take Greg along."

Of course. Of _course_ they would have to work together on this, the most awkward night of their entire friendship. Grissom misinterpreted Greg's less-than-ecstatic expression as disinterest for the case, and corrected him.  
"Don't worry, Greg. Burglary gone wrong is always fun, right Nicky?"  
Nicky took the slip, looking distracted. "Yeah, a real hoot. Come on, Greggo, I'm driving."  
"Why doesn't anybody in this lab trust me behind the wheel of a car?" Greg grumbled.  
"Because we've seen you drive, and we don't like dying before we get to a crime scene," Catherine teased.  
"I don't drive that fast … do I?" Everyone, Grissom included, just looked at him. "All right, you've made your point."

_Three A.M. on the city street,  
When the air is sweet,  
I've had my mouth full.  
But it seems that outside the screen  
Such a pretty face often will look dreadful._

The crime scene was on the outskirts of Vegas, so it was a nice house with an actual front yard. The body was found there, with a gun next to the guy and a bullet hole his heart. Nick processed the yard, while Greg took the house. The first thing he found was a bullet in the doorframe.  
"Hey Nick, I've got a bullet. Looks like a nine-millimeter."  
"The gun near the vic is the same caliber. Maybe the shooter left their gun here, so we couldn't find it if they got caught. They were probably both wearing gloves for the robbery anyway, so he didn't have to worry about prints."  
"Right."

Greg went into the room. It was completely trashed, and not all of it looked like a burglary. Cheap second-hand DVDs were piled on top of the coffee table, dirty dishes were stacked on every flat surface, and pillows were tossed everywhere but on the couch. The owner of the house was either a single man, or a family with teenagers, he thought with a slight smile.  
Greg went through the usual motions of processing a robbery. There were no prints on the doorknob, but he did collect metal shavings. It looked like the suspect had jimmied the lock open with a knife. He found no prints anywhere, but there was a little bit of blood in the kitchen, courtesy of a sharp knife in the silver drawer. Anyone who lived in the building would know to avoid the knife, right?  
Greg was just about to collect the knife when Nick walked past the kitchen window. He scared the hell out of Greg at first--damn that man and his fondness for dark clothes. Greg considered tapping on the screen just to repay the favor, when something made him pause. It was dark outside, but a conveniently placed streetlight threw an orangey glow on Nick's face. It reminded Greg of every cheesy and/or pornographic movie he had ever seen, when, at some point, the hero or heroine was shown by candlelight.  
It was then that he fully understood that Nick Stokes was an incredibly attractive man, especially for someone approaching forty. He hadn't even considered that he had once found himself in a position that every female in the lab would kill to find themselves in. And what had he done? Thrown up in the man's toilet, babbled about his porn preferences, and arranged to receive his boxers in the mail so they would never have to discuss it again.

In fact, thinking back, Greg couldn't remember even considering whether or not he wanted to sleep with Nick. It had just been awkward, sleeping with a coworker. It had been especially awkward on his part because he was willing to admit--in the deep, inner sanctum of his own twisted mind, that is--that he had the occasional fantasy about Nick. Not that that was anything out of the ordinary, right? _Everyone_ thought of someone attractive like that, right? Catherine had even admitted as such to him once, albeit after Warrick's marriage when he accidentally found her one-hundred-and-ten-percent drunk off her ass. Actually, she had admitted a lot of things that night, some vaguely disturbing. He had once admitted to Grissom that he found other people's preferences interesting, but he did draw the line at having a motherly colleague telling him that she had once gotten bored and imagined an elaborate threesome involving him, Nick, and Warrick. That was just creepy. Wait, what was he talking about?

_Am I beautiful?  
Am I usable?_

But he had to admit that it was kind of cool--the Nick thing, not the Catherine thing. If only he wasn't so damn drunk and could remember a single itty bitty detail.  
…Nick hadn't thought it was cool. He had clearly never spent a second wondering if he had slept with Greg for any reason other than a long dry spell. Or had he? No, that was just stupid. Why would Nick want to date Greg? He only went for the best--well, except for that hooker girl. But that was why Nick was still single. He had high standards, and he wouldn't lower them for a bleach blonde, punk rocker, surfer boy geek like Greg.  
Except he had called Greg attractive, right?

Oh wait, Greg didn't care. Ha ha. Right. So all of this was pointless.

But then Nick tilted his head curiously, looking at something in the lawn, and the light fell on his face at an even more advantageous angle. Greg sucked in his breath. All of a sudden Nick looked … different. Not bad different. More like … personal different. As if he was seeing him in a different light--no pun intended.  
Greg had a sudden vision of Nick smiling that the-world-loves-me-and-I-love-the-world smile at him. Not just at him, to him. Only they weren't in the lab, or sitting on someone's couch having a video game tournament like they did with Warrick sometimes. In fact, neither Warrick nor anyone else was there. They were alone, completely alone. In bed, actually. They were in bed, they were both naked, and Nick was smiling at him intimately in the light of a lamp. It was sweet.  
Greg wasn't sure if he was remembering something from the other night or if his subconscious was trying to tell him something, but he figured it was the latter, because he and Nick had woken up wearing boxers and in the vision they were naked. Which led to the question of why he was having cozy, post-coital visions of Nick Stokes… Holy fuck. Did he have a crush on Nick?

Well duh. Half the lab had a crush on Nick.  
No way. Nick was … Nick.

One drunken night didn't mean he was in love. After drinking that much beer, anyone would sleep with anyone. Greg was hardly the first one to sleep with someone accidentally, right? And if everyone fell in love over a one-night stand, there would be a whole lot more love in the world.  
The thing that was bugging Greg, though, was something Papa Olaf used to say. "Alkoholen vil ikke lage du dum. Den ville lage du modig." Roughly translated and interpreted, it meant that the only thing alcohol ever did was give you a push in the right direction. It didn't take over your mind or anything.  
So it wasn't like sleeping with Nick was a random thing. He had wanted to. Well, a lot of people wanted to. But he had. But … oh, this was confusing. Heterosexual men had it so easy.  
Nick bent down then, and Greg had the wild urge to lean over and kiss the back of his neck, the light hairs clinging to his skin. _Well, fuck a duck_, Greg thought, amused. He was in love with Nick Stokes. And less than twelve hours ago he had been assuring both himself and Nick that there was nothing between them. Aw crap, that was potentially crippling. How the hell was he supposed to counter that?

Greg suddenly realized that he had been staring out the window, swab in the air, for roughly ten minutes, and Nick had just moved out of his line of sight. He looked around, confused. Nick had no business leaving that window, Greg wasn't done ogling him yet! The door suddenly slammed shut, and Nick's voice rebounded through the hall. Oh.

"Hey Greggo, I'm done with the outside. Figured I'd help you out here… Whoa. This place is a pigsty."  
"Yeah. No useable prints, but I found something from the lock and there's some blood and fibers in the kitchen… hold the _phone_, I think we've got a print."  
Greg had swabbed the blood and was picking off a piece of lint from the knife edge when he saw it. It was a partial fingerprint, visible in blood. The scene played out in his head: one burglar getting a little too eager to shovel that silver into his bag, getting cut. Tearing his glove off and leaning on the counter, cursing under his breath. His partner grabbing a towel, stemming the blood flow. And then they resume their plundering.  
Grinning, Greg lightly dusted the print to increase the visibility, pleased to note the ridge detail.  
"Oh yeah, she's a beauty."  
No response.  
"Nick?"  
"Greg… don't move."  
"What's…"

The question died on his lips as Greg felt a curious sort of tension in the air right behind the base of his spine, as if his skin was tingling in anticipation. He knew, without even knowing how he knew, what was causing the apprehension.

That was why he knew to freeze in place when a cold voice, only shaking a little bit, spoke from behind him.

"Listen to your buddy, _Greg_. Don't move."

_It's killing time again.  
Put on your face and let's pretend,  
These killing lights won't kill us all again._

"Aw, fuck," Greg muttered. "This just isn't my year."  
"Excuse me?" the cold-but-shaky voice demanded.  
"Well I've already been beaten within an inch of my life, nearly suspended, almost run over, bitten, and now I'm being held at fuckin' gunpoint. Give me a break, man."  
"Maybe if you weren't so nosy, dumbass. Why'd you have to find the fucking fingerprint?"  
"Hate to break it to you, dude, but shooting two CSIs is gonna leave a helluva lot more evidence than we've got so far," Nick said, perfectly calm. Greg wondered how he could do that. Now that his head had caught up to his mouth, he was kinda terrified.

The suspect turned his gun away from Greg, who was grateful. He could feel the tension ease. He really hated guns. He was a good shot, but he really, truly hated guns. Greg took the opportunity to slowly turn and view the situation. Nick was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his hands held up like he was halting traffic. The suspect was a thin white man with a scraggly brown beard, wearing blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and an old white wife beater. A stereotypical southern hick, minus the accent, licking his lips nervously.

"I don't want to shoot you, but I will."  
"If you don't want to, then man, let us go, all right?" Nick said. He was playing on the accent now, stretching it out. It was sort of soothing. Damn, where had he learned that trick? "I know this is going to sound like police b.s., but it's better for you if you walk away, right now."  
"And why in the hell would I do that?"  
"Because, if you leave right now, all we say is that the suspect returned to the scene and we were unable to apprehend him. If this goes on any longer, those officers out there are going to notice." He nodded in the direction of the cops, and the suspect twitched. Great, a nervous burglar with an itchy trigger finger. That was _exactly_ what Greg wanted. "And then it becomes a hostage situation. Trust me, those never work. A whole lot of media attention comes in, and we" he indicated himself and Greg "look like heroes. You look like the bad guy, and even if you manage to get out, your face is plastered all over, people find you in some out of the way diner and you're put behind bars."  
"And how's that any different, huh?" the guy asked, licking his lips. "You put me in jail anyway. You know I could blow your heads off right now and this would be over with."  
"There are other CSIs, man. Some of them better than we are. Tell you the truth, this is my first time in charge," Nick lied easily. "And Greggo here's just a rookie. My supervisor won't like leaving his crime scene, but you can bet he'll have every CSI in Vegas here once he finds out his CSIs were involved, and they can process the evidence just as easily."  
"You think I'm stupid? I watch those cop shows, all I gotta do is mess with the evidence and it's all compromised."  
"Killing two people leaves a lot of evidence," Nick said softly. "And unfortunately, we get a lot of those in Nevada. A friend of mine is a specialist in shootings, and I know a girl who's even better with blood than we are. They'll find you out."

Grissom. Warrick. Catherine. Greg could feel his breathing speed up. Here was Nick, casually mentioning their coworkers to a guy holding him at gunpoint. How the hell did he do that? More importantly, how was he not shitting his pants right now? All right, Greg hadn't gotten quite that far yet, but he was gripping the counter with both hands to keep his knees from giving out.  
_Thank God for latex_, he thought suddenly (not for the first time in his life). He didn't dare contaminate the scene, not when it was about to be home to a burglary and a triple homicide. The thought made his palms start to sweat, which was always uncomfortable in latex gloves. The scene, though, the scene. What could he do to protect it? Inspiration struck and Greg tried to subtly shift the left to hide the bloody fingerprint from view. Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps?  
Bad move. Nick's eyes slid to him, while the suspect whirled around, his gun in front of him.

"Show me your hands!" he ordered.  
"I'm not…" His voice sounded dry. He tried swallowing. "I'm not even licensed to carry a gun. Crappy shot."  
"Show 'em to me!"  
"All right."  
Damn, his knees were still weak. Once again trying to be subtle, Greg shifted his weight to one foot and leaned against the counter a little, making sure he didn't smudge the print. He held out his hands. Clean and gloved and conspicuously empty. The suspect wasn't satisfied.  
"What're you doing with your feet?"  
"Nothing, I'm just feeling a little light-headed. Diabetic," he lied. He had to stop spewing spontaneous lies all over the place. It was going to get him in trouble one of these days.  
"Diabetes is for fat people. You ain't fat," the guy stated bluntly.  
"I'm flattered. Type one diabetes is hereditary. Mom had it. Grandpa too." All right, that wasn't totally a lie. Margaret Sanders did have diabetes, type two, but Papa Olaf was thin as a whistle and healthy as some men half his age, thank God. Greg had the sudden urge to knock on wood, but he had feeling his captor wouldn't allow it, and besides, the countertop was tiled.  
While the suspect was busy with Greg, Nick was trying to ever so slowly reach his gun or his radio, whichever worked. He failed. The suspect whirled around again the second Nick's hands fell from the air. Nick grinned.

"You've got good peripheral vision, but I was just relaxin', bud. Stressful situation, doesn't help if I'm losing all the blood in my hands. I'll put 'em back up if you want, though."  
_Damn_ _Stokes. How are you so calm?_ Greg felt like growling. He glared out the kitchen window. Where were those fucking officers?  
"Mind telling me your name?" Nick asked. Greg openly gaped. What the hell?  
"I'm not fuckin' stupid."  
"All right, that's cool. I just like having people's names. Mind if I call you Charlie?"  
"…No."  
"Thanks. So Charlie, would you mind if I took off my vest? It's a little bulky, you know."  
Both Greg and 'Charlie' stared at him in disbelief.  
"Why in the hell would I let you do that?" 'Charlie' finally choked out.  
"Well it's actually a lucky break for you. I got all sorts of stuff inside my vest. Like my radio, my cell phone. Not to mention it's bulletproof, so it's not doing you any favors."  
Liar. CSI regulation vests were stab-proof, but offered no protection against a bullet. Still, what the hell was Nicky thinking?  
"Fine. You," 'Charlie' nodded at Greg. "Take it off. Hands where I can see 'em."

Greg walked over to Nick, pleased to note the return of feeling in his legs. He was less pleased to note the quaky feeling in his stomach that usually meant he was about to puke. Greg's numb fingers struggled with the zipper of Nick's vest. It caught on all the burrs on the way down, which was sort of good because it gave him ten second's more time.  
"What're you doing, Nick?" he muttered.  
"In plain view of the door. No vest," Nick muttered. Ah yes, that would draw more attention than a CSI standing stock still for ten minutes with his hands up. Greg dropped the vest to the ground and stood there for a moment, unsure of whether or not moving would get him shot.  
"Stay there. Away from the room," 'Charlie' ordered. "Here's what we're gonna do. You're going to give me everything you found. I'm leaving, and you're gonna stay right there for ten minutes. You got that?"  
"There's a bit of a problem there. All my evidence is in my car," Nick said smoothly.  
'Charlie' swore under his breath. "You?" he asked, pointing the gun at Greg.  
"Mine too," he lied, willing himself not to glance at the pile near the door.  
"Liar. You never left the house."  
Greg swallowed nervously, trying to think fast. There was no way Nick could bail him out of this one. He was just about to open his mouth and go with whatever came out, when he was saved.

"Stokes, Sanders, you all right in there?"  
'Charlie' froze, and his finger tightened perceptibly on the trigger. It was clearly a warning.  
"Yeah, John, we're good. Busy crime scene, lots to process."

Greg was confused for a second. They didn't have any cops named… Oh. Right. Haha. Attention-grabbing. It seemed to work, because almost immediately the door opened. 'Charlie' spun around, pointing his gun at the entrance. Nick was just waiting for that. In an instant he had a gun in his hand, pointing straight at the suspect.  
Charlie, confused, aimed at him again, only to have another gun pointed at him by Officer Sampson. "Gun down. Now."  
Cursing, 'Charlie' lowered his weapon immediately. Two other officers entered the house, took the gun, and handcuffed him. Greg blinked. Well… that was easy.

_It's killing time again.  
Cover your face and we'll pretend,  
These killing lights can't kill us all again._

"Nick, I heard a rumor from Brass that something went wrong at your crime scene," Grissom called as soon as they entered the lab. Greg could feel his hands shaking, and shoved them into his jacket pockets before Grissom could notice. Because Grissom always noticed.  
"Yeah, suspect returned to the crime scene."  
"Armed?"  
"Yeah."  
"That sounds dangerous, Nicky. What happened?"  
"Nothing much," Nick said with a shrug. Greg's jaw nearly dropped, and he looked at him angrily. Nothing _much_? "Suspect returned with a gun, threatened us, after about ten minutes"--that was _all_?--"the uniforms noticed something was up and subdued him. We managed to recover all the evidence."  
"Good. I can pull Sara off her case to process, if you want to check out early."  
"Nah," Nick replied, as if he had not a care in the world. "I want to make sure we've got enough evidence to get this guy."  
Greg desperately wanted to say "See ya" and run out, but he couldn't. Not when Nick was standing there, so normal. So he tried to hide his sigh and grinned. "Hell yeah, no way he's getting away."

Shift was almost over when Greg finally managed to escape to the break room. Sara and Warrick were there--Sara was still holding onto that magazine. Greg glared at it, and she rolled her eyes. "I'm reading Warrick this stupid sob story about some model who was enticed to commit murder or something. I'm mocking them."  
"Whatever, I've decided I don't care." He poured a cup of coffee and almost took a sip before halting, making a face. "Gross guys, you drink all my coffee and fill the pot with this crap? Have a little respect, please."  
"Sorry, Greg, Archie slipped in before we had a chance to protect your sacred coffee. Stole it all," Warrick said with a grin, completely unrepentant.  
"Nasty."

Then Nick strode right in, because of course on the worst day of Greg's life Fate just couldn't leave him once he was down. He was wearing a big grin.  
"Hey Stokes, heard it told you a whole ten minutes to disarm that suspect," Warrick teased. "You're falling off your game, man."  
Nick laughed. "What can I say? It's been a while." Then he turned to Greg. "We've got a match on the blood. Fingerprint and DNA matched the suspect, Jake Monroe. The blood on the trigger of the nine mil used to kill Matt Harden matched. Slam dunk."  
"Great. Motive?"  
"Robbery and dispute over--get this--the gun he had when he came back to the scene. It was the most expensive item in the whole house. Both of their prints were all over it, too. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy. What?" he added. Sara was snickering, and Warrick just gave him a look.  
"Lemon squeezy? What are you, twelve?"  
"Blame my mom, after eighteen years I kinda picked it up."  
"Inexcusable," Warrick countered, just shaking his head.

Greg looked between them, completely silent. Normally he would jump at an opportunity like this. He would laugh, tease Nick, maybe even throw in a few flirty glances. But now, he could only think of one thing to say, and it sure as hell was not going to pass his lips: I could have died tonight and you're talking about fucking lemons?  
"You okay, Greg?" Sara asked suddenly. "You look a little pale."  
He grabbed at the opportunity with both hands. "You know, I'm feeling kind of tired. Nick, you mind finishing with the casefile? I'm gonna go home, get some rest."  
"Yeah, no problem, Greggo."  
"See ya," Warrick called. "You know, you'd get a lot more sleep if you didn't pick up random guys in bars before shift."  
"Shut up!" he called casually over his shoulder, vaguely amused to hear Sara's astonished _"What?" _The amusement faded, however, when he was about to pass the ballistics lab. There was a shot--not unusual, seeing as it was a _ballistics lab_--but Greg's tense muscles overreacted and he swerved violently (what, he could dodge bullets now?) almost crashing through the glass door of the day supervisor's office. For another paralyzing second he didn't move, before realizing his error. He blushed, straightening, and looked around quickly. No one saw that, right?  
Bobby Dawson was busy showing the newly-expended bullet to Grissom, who seemed disappointed. A little ways away, Wendy was giving some results to Catherine, who seemed pleased. No Hodges in sight, thank God.  
He needed to get home.

_You see, they always remember.  
They never forget a face.  
When they cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut you up,  
Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, they remember.  
Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut you up.  
Cut you up!_

He didn't start several traffic accidents on the way home, which was good. He managed to get inside his apartment and wave to the old lady down the hall without scaring her, which was good. He was even able to make his way to the kitchen and pull something to eat out of the fridge, which was good.  
The bad thing was he barely paid attention while he was driving and found himself driving towards Nick's place twice. The bad thing was the wave to Mrs. Noland had begun as a quick hand blocking his face in self-defense. The bad thing was he had absolutely no idea what he was eating, not even when he felt the drink slip from his numb, quivering hands and spill across the table, soaking his jeans.  
He jumped up immediately, scowling, and went into the bedroom to change. He threw on a pair of sweats and sat in the living room. He would very much like to sleep right now, but he was too wound up. Even if he managed to get to sleep, he'd wake right up again. So, unfortunately, Greg had to watch TV. He plopped down on the couch and turned the TV on, noting idly that it was still set on BBC because he recorded anything worthwhile. Aw, fuck it. Who cared?

After watching some fat couple eat lots of funky food and (supposedly) getting thinner, he was reminded that he hadn't actually eaten, just taken a bite of something and spilled warm soda all over brand new, hundred-fifty dollar jeans. He sighed and forced his tired legs to lift him in a semi-standing position, and then spurred his feet into action by cursing at them in a spicy mix of English and Norwegian.  
Greg didn't much care what he ate. He just grabbed a muffin and pulled an ice cream from the freezer. It didn't matter. He had a high metabolism anyway. He was turning back towards the living room when the silver barrel of a gun came into his line of vision, and he dropped down behind the counter instantly.  
His heart pounded nervously as the ice cream, forgotten, rolled across the floor and the muffin sat under the table, squat and immobile. Greg sat there, clutching his knees, not sure whether he wanted to open his eyes as wide as they would go or squeeze them tightly shut so he wouldn't have to see anything.

After two full minutes of silence, Greg worked up the nerve to peek around the counter. Empty. The whole apartment was empty. Stupid imagination. He let out a long, shaky breath. "See, Sanders? You're just going crazy. That's all. All right, time to get off the floor. Legs, move." They refused to comply. "Come on, you know how to do this. Balance weight, straighten knees." Nothing. "Guys, we've done this before. You can do it."  
Hesitantly, he stood. His legs felt like Jell-O. "Okay, new plan. Ass, meet floor."  
Greg sat back down and pulled his knees up to his chest. "We can just stay here. All alone. No one's gonna bother us, no one else is here."  
_You would be dead if it was just you in that house… no Nick to save you… just you… weak… stupid… scared…  
_"Shut up," he hissed. "Self-esteem, Sanders."  
But his stupid brain was still in self-destructive mode, bringing up images of .45s and guys named Charlie in plaid shirts and wife-beaters. Greg shook his head violently, trying to displace the images, but they were persistent. He tried closing his eyes, and they grew stronger. He pressed his forehead against his knees, biting his lip. He was breathing hard, his heart was thumping irregularly in his esophagus, and he felt like he was going to be sick. This was a crappy day.  
"Shut up… leave me alone…"  
Why was it so loud? Bangs, crashes and jeers echoed through his ears, accompanied by some kind of frenzied, jagged kind of noise… oh. That was him. Crying.  
Shit. He was hysteric… _again_.

_It's killing time again.  
Put on your face and let's pretend,  
These killing lights won't kill us all again._

There was knocking on the door--loud knocks, yet casual, like a friend saying "Hey dumbass, open the door" but not really caring if you did immediately because they knew you weren't doing anything more important than waiting for them to come and knowing they weren't doing anything more important than bringing a case of beer so you could sit on the couch and stare at a TV.  
Greg was annoyed. Couldn't anyone freak out in peace anymore?  
He didn't get up--didn't think he could--and, after a slight pause, the knocking increased in speed. Then it stopped, and he sighed thankfully, about to go back to his breakdown, when the muffled bang of the lock unlocking echoed through the apartment. Damn.

"Hey Greg, why didn't you answer?" Dammit. It was Nick. Of course it was Nick. Who else would it be? "G? Where are you?"  
"Over here," a voice very much like Greg's called out. Only it couldn't be Greg's, because it was dull and a little hoarse, and in any case Greg would never do something that stupid.  
Nick heard the voice and came into the kitchen. He seemed surprised to see Greg on the floor. He was carrying a six-pack--ha ha. He probably was a friend saying "dumbass open the door" and bringing a case of beer so they could sit on the couch and stare at the TV. Greg was a good guesser, huh? Anyway, Nick put the beer down on the table, looking wary.  
"I was gonna suggest a toast to your first hostage situation, but you don't look like you're in the mood," he said jokingly, trying to flash that signature smile and failing. Greg glared at him. "What's going on, G?"  
Greg didn't answer, and Nick decided that sitting down would help. He mimicked Greg's position, leaning against the wall, only _he_ wasn't falling apart, so he was all right stretching his legs out.

"How do you deal with it?" that same voice asked. Maybe it really was Greg's, because Nick was looking at him when he responded.  
"Deal with what?"  
"Staring down the fucking barrel of a gun, that's what," Greg snapped. "What else would I be talking about?"  
"Aw man, Greggo," Nick said softly, almost whispering, surprised. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think … you okay?"  
"_You_ obviously are, and according to everyone else at the lab, being perfectly calm and breezy about almost being shot is the perfect reaction, so I must just be a freak. Why would I bother anyone else with it? It's probably some higher plane of CSI thinking that I just haven't reached yet, my bad, I mean it's not like I'm deficient in other things as well so it makes sense that I wouldn't get this. Leave me alone, I'll be fine, it's not like I ever have nightmares or get freaked out because I've just had a near death experience or--"  
"_Greg_," Nick said, interrupting his babbling. "Greg, relax."  
"_No_."

They stared each other down for a minute, before Greg looked away. His hands were shaking, he noticed idly, and Nick saw it to.  
"I didn't know you still had trouble with that."  
"I don't," Greg mumbled. "Doctor said it's some kind of involuntary nerve reaction, initially caused by the paranoia of having a comforting, controlled area violated. When the nerves in my brain are faced with the same problem--familiar becoming frightening--the nerves in my hands react similarly to the nerves in my brain, and start flipping out. Some 'psychology meets physiology' crap."  
Nick was silent for a moment, thinking, watching him, before suddenly looking away and starting hesitantly. "Listen, Greg, it's not weird for you to be freaked out. Not everyone was expecting you to be calm--they were expecting _me_ to be calm, and they were impressed by you. You were great when we got back, man. Grissom was going to give you the rest of the day off even though you didn't want it, but you were doing so well he thought you didn't need it."

Greg almost laughed. Oh, the bitter irony.

"Look, the only ones who have ever been in a situation like that are you and me. They don't know how they would react. At first, they over-think it, expect it to be the most crippling thing in the world. I suppose it's my fault for reversing that, but I'm an old pro at this whole gun-in-my-face thing, and besides… Remember the first case I was held at gunpoint? The missing girl we found in a house? There was sand in her ears--you tried to get Grissom to send you to the beach." Nick smiled, and Greg felt a tiny grin on his own face.  
"Well when we got back to the lab and told everyone what went down, Grissom left something out of the story--which I'm eternally grateful for, by the way. I was crying, Greg. I was trying to get her to put the gun down, but I was choking up. Man, by the time Grissom got there it was all I could do to keep from blubbering like a baby. I got home and sobbed into my pillow, and then I called one of my sisters and poured my heart out. Isn't that embarrassing?"  
"Not really," Greg muttered. "I've heard worse."  
"Well, my point is, I was embarrassed after I got the whole thing out, telling Casey all that. When we were growing up, I hated being the baby of the family. Can you imagine that, six siblings all treating you like you were five until you went to college? So you know, I tried to be all cheerful all the time, stoic. Letting it out like that was humiliating for me, but Casey didn't think it was embarrassing. She said she was relieved that I finally stopped acting like I was unbreakable. She told me that all of them were trying to protect me, because I seemed like I was trying to fake them all out, hide all of my problems. Which I was."  
Greg couldn't help it. He snorted. "Come on, what kind of problems did you have? Only getting the _second_ most beautiful person in school to fall for you?"  
Nick stared at him for a long moment, thoughtfully, and something about his gaze made Greg feel awful.

"Not quite, G. I had a few issues that I never shared with them--still haven't. Anyway, Casey was the one who told me that sometimes, pretending not to be in pain hurts more. Living up to people's expectations isn't always the great idea, because sometimes they're expecting too much of you, and once they realize that they'll still accept you. That's what I think is your problem. When you were in the lab, everyone was always joking and trying to make you grow up, right? Well now you're growing too fast, G. We all loved Greggo, the hyper lab rat. You don't _have_ to grow up, Greg, and we won't think anything less of you if some jackass with a gun scares you."  
Greg felt a slight pinprick in the corner of his eyes, almost as if he was going to cry, which wasn't possible because he had just finished sobbing hysterically and he wasn't _that_ much a wimp.

Nick must have thought that he was about to cry, though, because he mumbled "Come 'ere," and pulled Greg into a bear hug, turning the other man's face into his shoulder. Greg did not cry, but he might have let out a few ragged breaths that sounded like dry sobs. Nick only hugged him tighter, resting his cheek against Greg's hair in an almost loving gesture.  
Greg's breath hitched. Had Nick just kissed his hair?  
"Nicky?"  
"Yeah, Greggo?"  
"Did you just kiss my hair?"  
"You have nice hair."  
"Yes I do. Why'd you kiss it?"  
Nick was silent for a long, long, long time before Greg looked up, curious, to find Nick staring at him intensely. His eyes were darker than Greg had previously thought. They were practically all pupil, with just a chestnut undertone. His eyes were still very expressive, though, and Greg suddenly saw all: Nick wasn't satisfied with their conversation yesterday, either. He wanted to dig deeper, and maybe he knew the concept of 'Alkoholen vil ikke lage du dum. Den ville lage du modig,' too.

Sitting just like that, Greg had a sudden epiphany, and his heart went into overtime. He was about to die because blood was rushing through him far too fast to drop oxygen off, which explained why his brain was going haywire, relaying one cycle of thought over and over.  
This was it. This was the scene in the sad little movie that was life when Nick would kiss him, and the music would crescendo and he would become obscenely happy and all the women in the audience (i.e. Sara and Catherine) would go _awwwww_. What was the last thing he had eaten? An apple? Apples didn't make his breath smell/taste bad, did they? Apples didn't smell bad. They were sweet. Oh wait, hadn't he drunk a Coke? What did Coke taste like?  
But then Nick was kissing him, and his breath must have been fine, because Greg couldn't help but sit up just a little straighter and wrap his arms around Nick's neck and press himself just a little tighter--God, he was warm--and kiss back just a little harder, and Nick didn't seem to mind. In fact, Nick now had his gentle hands on Greg's face. Oh wait, Nick was using those hands to push him away. Damn.

"You tired, G?" he asked, his voice low and sexy and husky and warm and sexy and soft and oh so sexy.  
"Maybe." Which meant 'yeah, but if you want to have sex with me there is no way I am turning you down.'  
Nick seemed to know that. He laughed--low and husky and sexy, of course--and leaned forward so their foreheads were touching. "I am. Mind if I stay here?"  
"Nuh-uh."  
Nick gave him a hand standing up, and walked to the bedroom without a backwards glance. He was perfectly comfortable in Greg's apartment, apparently. Greg took a moment of silence to thank the Lord for giving him this moment, with the taste of Nick still on his lips, the warmth of Nick on his skin, and the spectacular view of Nick's ass in his eyes.

It was then that Greg realized exactly what Nick tasted like. Coffee. Which was weird, because Nick claimed he didn't like coffee. But the thing that surprised him the most--and made him really, really mad--was that Nick tasted like _his_ coffee. Nicholas Stokes was a dead man.

_It's killing time again.  
Cover your face and we'll pretend,  
These killing lights can't kill us all again._

Nick slept in a tee shirt and boxers, which was really too bad, because if Greg remembered correctly he had a damn nice chest. Not that seeing Nick in pajama clothes wasn't sexy. It was. In fact, that was the only reason he wasn't in trouble for drinking Greg's coffee, and Nick seemed to realize this.  
"You comin' or not?" he teased, as if he wasn't pinning Greg down with just those dark eyes, like a speared butterfly in Grissom's office.  
"Yeah."  
He climbed into bed minus pants and a shirt, feeling just a little bit uncomfortable in Nick's presence.  
Nick slid under the covers and draped an arm around Greg's waist. He was quite close, the cotton fabric of his tee shirt smooth against Greg's skin. Greg could feel his soft breath blowing on his neck, and he really almost shivered. As close as he was, of course Nick noticed.

"You nervous, G?"  
"No. It's cold in here."  
Pathetic excuse, but Nick pretended to believe it and wrapped the blanket tighter around Greg's shoulder in a way that was so sweet, and so caring, and so Nick, Greg had to wiggle around and turn so he could plant a kiss on the tough-but-mushy hunk o' man next to him. Nick's lips turned up in a smile.  
"'Night, G."  
"G'night."  
Greg put his hands on Nick's hips hesitantly, letting his head fall on the other man's shoulder, and had the intense pleasure of feeling Nick shiver. Ha, score one for Greggo. "Nervous, Nicky?"  
He laughed. "Shut up."  
And he forced him to, capturing his lips in a long, slow kiss.

"You've been stealing my coffee, Stokes."  
"No I haven't."  
"Yeah you have."  
"Seeing how you attacked Wendy the other day? No way. I had a cup once, it was so good I had to get some myself."  
"Crazy 4 Caffeine?"  
"Yup."  
"Wow. You totally converted."  
"Mm-hm. Every day, now, steaming black cup of Blue Hawaiian. You're making me poor already, Greggo."  
"Sorry. No, you know what, I'm not. You taste good."  
Nick laughed. "I'm gonna take that as compliment."  
"It is." Greg managed to resist the urge to lick him just to prove his point. There would be plenty of time to ease Nick into this. No need to scare him off just yet.  
"Night, Nicky."  
"G'night."

_All again.  
All again.  
It's time again._

It was dark, late at night. The only light was from a flickering streetlamp, but the lighting wasn't important. Greg knew where he was.  
His heart began to pound. The dirty bricks in the wall, the slick cement, the reek of old garbage and new blood… this place was hell to him. He wanted to leave, but was hesitant on which way to go. Further down the alley was the streetlamp and, on the edge of his sight, the street, but before he reached civilization he would pass right under the light in an open area--he would be easy prey. Behind him, the way was blocked. Greg felt like a mouse in a maze. He was being pushed down a tunnel, unable to go back, afraid to go forward, and knowing that staying still was impossible.  
There was a faint sound--a footstep. Greg spun around, breathing heavy. "Who's there?" he called, his voice weak. "I'm with the L.V.P.D.!" Like it mattered. He sounded too pathetic to be taken seriously.  
Suddenly there was a loud bang next to him. He cried out, recoiling, as red flames licked at his skin. Before he could do more than pat the slight fire on his elbow, another boom echoed to his right and another fire erupted. Greg yelled again, and his eyes caught on the flames. The memories came back… fire, rushing at him… burning… Then he turned and ran. He tried to, at least. Two more explosions, and he was hemmed in.  
"No… no… Somebody, help!"  
Footsteps again, lots of them. He could see people through the fire, a huge group of people… but they weren't there to help. It was _them_. They always came in these dreams.  
One of them reached in through the wall, ignoring the heat, and pulled Greg through. He screamed as the nerve endings in his skin shriveled and died, but they didn't respond. The one holding him--deformed face, black jacket, mocking eyes--threw him on the ground. He curled into a ball, and the familiar mantra tore from his lips.  
"I'm sorry, so sorry… please, please leave me alone, don't hurt me… no… God, I'm sorry… please stop…"  
They didn't kick him, or beat him, or touch him at all. They stared at him, lying there, begging, and just smirked. They were eerily silent. What were they waiting for? The one who had pulled him through the fire reached down, and Greg flinched. The man wasn't violent, though. He took Greg's arm and tugged on his arm. The only pain was from where he gripped the burns.  
Greg was confused, but then the other members of the gang did the same, pulling on his arms and legs. They spread him out until he was lying down, completely exposed. There was another set of footsteps, and a new figure came into view, a figure with dark skin and glowing white eyes. In his hand was a sleek silver gun.  
"Shouldn't've got out," he whispered, aiming the gun right at Greg's chest. "You're no hero, wannabe."  
Greg tried to struggle, but the gang held him tightly. All he could do was turn his head, but he instantly wished he hadn't. They were all standing there: Sara, Warrick, Catherine, Grissom… Nick. They were just watching. Not moving a muscle. Not looking angry or upset. Just watching.  
"Guys…" he croaked. "Guys, help… Grissom… Nicky…"  
The man with the gun snorted derisively, and there was the unmistakable sound of a shot, ringing through the night sky.

Greg woke up very suddenly and found his limbs thrashing around, trying to free himself from the blanket twisted around him. This happened a lot, nearly every time he woke up from a nightmare. Whenever there was another person in the bed, it posed a huge problem.  
"Agh! Watch it G, you just elbowed me in the face!"  
Greg stilled, looking around quickly and breathing hard. A faint sheen of sweat covered his chest--his hair was soaked with it. Gross. He must have woken Nick up; the Texan's eyes were still barely open. He was rubbing his jaw, but he didn't look quite as annoyed as some of the others had been.

"Sorry."  
"What's goin' on?"  
"Nothing."  
"You don't wake up freakin' out because of nothing, Greggo."  
"Must've had a weird dream. Don't remember," Greg mumbled, laying back down and wishing Nick would just let it go. He didn't like to talk about his nightmares. Some of them were so pathetic, it was just embarrassing.  
"Trust me on this one, G, you _always_ remember a dream like that."  
"Drop it."

Nick was silent for a moment. He hugged Greg from behind suddenly, resting his chin on his shoulder. "Greg… if you're having nightmares, I'm the person to talk to. Get 'em all the time."  
"Really?"  
"Yeah. They're getting better, but used to be I couldn't even make it through the night. That's why I grew to love your coffee." Greg smiled to himself for a brief moment, before the smile flickered away. "You know how I made them stop?"  
"Therapy?" Greg suggested, somewhat sarcastically. Nick laughed.  
"Close. My sister Maria is a therapist. I talked to her."  
"What _don't_ you tell your sisters?"  
"I feel guilty, you know? With this job I don't always make it home for birthdays or holidays or vacations, so I make up for it by enlarging my phone bill. So I talked to Maria for a couple of minutes and she told me I should call her right after they happened, every time. It was pretty easy since she was at the office when I was asleep, and… it worked. No nightmares, except after a really bad case." He paused for a moment. "Since you like to talk so much…"  
Greg sighed. "It's exactly what you'd expect. Alley, gang, explosions. Only this time I got shot too, which was a bit new for me. That's it. I'm over it."  
"'Kay, that's enough for now. You'll get more detailed next time."  
"There's going to be a next time?"  
"Hell yeah. Doesn't matter if it's the same dream or a different one, you're gonna want to tell me about it, I guarantee."  
"And you're gonna want to listen?" Greg asked doubtfully. Nick's arms tightened around his waist.  
"Mm-hm. Don't matter if I'm here or if you want me to go home and call, I'll listen to whatever you gotta say, G," he mumbled, kissing the bare skin of his shoulder.  
"You're a great big pile of romantic mush, you know that?" Greg said, not sure whether he wanted to roll his eyes or cry. He opted for the latter; a grown man shouldn't cry more than one and a half times a day. Nick smiled.

"And you love me for it."  
"Yeah."  
Nick tensed for a moment. "Wait, what was that?"  
"You said I loved you and I said … oops."  
"Mean it?"  
Greg paused. "You first."  
"Love you, G."  
"Love you too."

After a few long minutes of kissing and groping and almost having sex but deciding against it because they were really, really tired, the two finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

_It's killing time..._

"Please tell me that's not Grissom calling you in."  
"Ummm… Okay."  
"Good."  
"Bye, G."

Damn.

**

* * *

**

Okay, sorry if the format's a little confusing, but I tried not to do too many line breaks so the dream and the lyrics were clear enough.


End file.
